


Easy to Remember, Harder to Move on

by lumiereandcogsworth



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Bittersweet, Flashbacks, Gen, Growing Up, Light Angst, Memories, Memories of Paris, Moving On, Moving Out, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:33:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25965160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumiereandcogsworth/pseuds/lumiereandcogsworth
Summary: Belle looked up at him, rising to her feet. “Are you all right, Papa?”“Yes,” he pretended, putting a hand to her cheek. “Are you?”His daughter smiled, a little sadly. “I am. Though saying goodbye to this place is harder than I should have expected.” She put a hand on the wall, a faded mural of flowers and birds that Maurice did when she was little. It all seemed equally forever ago and just the day before.
Relationships: Adam/Belle (Disney), Belle & Maurice (Disney)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	Easy to Remember, Harder to Move on

The sun was shining rather brightly in the sky as Villeneuve’s cobblestone road below became more and more crowded. Two castle carriages, two drivers, four horses (five if you include Philippe and his wagon, which of course you do), six footmen, Belle, and Maurice, all somewhat successfully crammed onto the little street in front of the cottage. They entirely blocked the general foot-traffic of the regular residents of the town, but in all truth, those nosy neighbors were far too enchanted by the presence of such royal esteem, they hardly cared that they had to take new routes on their daily, dreary, provincial routines. 

While Belle began directing the footmen inside, showing the different entrances and requesting delicacy with the art and inventions, Maurice stood in the garden, staring up at the cottage. Their home. The place he sought for refuge when he faced the unimaginable. The place he raised his fearless daughter in. The place she had always known, and now the place they were to say goodbye to. Belle would be married to Adam soon, their lives soon to forever become one. And that union, when it takes place, would engrave itself in the place where it all began: the castle. 

Maurice, while always a little uneasy about change, was by all accounts excited at the prospect of making the castle their home. Belle had been living there since she’d first arrived, but for Maurice, this was something new. He hadn’t dared lift his roots in Villeneuve once he knew it was safe from the plague, from the darkness that had so deeply crept into his life in Paris. He couldn’t have bore returning to Paris anyway. It would have been too hard, hurt too much. He was never one for moving around, he’s a settled man. He would have died an old man in Paris, if life had shown him more kindness. 

“Monsieur?” A footman, who not all that long ago took on the appearance of a kitchen serving platter, was standing at the top of the stairs with his back to the front door, looking helplessly at Maurice. The artist started, coming down from the clouds and looking up at the boy on his front step. “Monsieur, I can’t seem to open the door.” 

Maurice chuckled to himself, making his way to the steps. “Ah, it gets jammed sometimes, you have to be a little patient with it.” He toggled the handle, shifting the door in place and pulling it open. “There you are!” He smiled as the footman nodded his thanks and slipped inside. Maurice stood there, hand clasped on the door. It had always been like that. Sometimes the door opened as a door should, with a nice click, and other times you had to be gentle with it. Or, maybe more aggressive, if you’d had a long day on the road in a run-down carriage with all your earthly possessions and a crying infant and you were really up to your neck in problems and stress.

_ “Truly, you- you have no cases here?”  _

_ “Not a single one, Monsieur, you and your little one will be more than safe. Please,” a hurried salesman gestured to the empty cottage at the end of the road. The garden was bare but it still looked far bigger than the tired traveler needed.  _

_ Maurice held his daughter close in his arms. At the moment, she was asleep, but that had not been the case for most of the day, as the rumble and crunch of the carriage had more than upset her little ears. “And- And the price… This does not look like I could afford—” _

_ “Monsieur, please! This is not the big city. I assure you it will be just perfect for a man of your… situation.” _

_ Maurice only furrowed his eyebrows and stepped closer to the property. Could he make a home out of this? Could he start a life outside of Paris? Without her?  _

_ “The keys, Monsieur.” The salesman dangled a ring with two iron keys in front of the artist, and without much time, he had to hold out a hand to catch them. “We can discuss payment tomorrow. Please, rest for the day! You and your little chérie have been on the road for far too long.”  _

_ The salesman turned and left down the cobblestone road. Maurice stood there beside the wagon of his worldly belongings, though there wasn’t much. He rocked his daughter, heart pounding; he hadn’t felt like he'd made a good decision since before everything happened. Still, he stood firm. He mustered up a bit more courage and walked up the stairs. He fit the key in the door, holding the infant in one arm. When he turned the key and pulled the door, it didn’t open. He twisted it again, tried the other key, the door was stuck. Nerves filled his stomach, anxiety, pleading; God, can one thing just work? He tugged on the door further, finally shifting it just right, the door ripped open. The sound woke the infant, sending her into a fit. Maurice dropped the keys and sat on the front step, shushing the baby. _

_ “Belle. Dear, dear Belle, I know, please…” He looked around, dusk was soon upon them, the village had grown quiet and it seemed they were the only ones in the world for a moment. One unfortunate, nerve-racking moment where a father and a daughter shared tears. Perhaps not entirely for the same reason, but the tears fell all the same. The artist brought his hand to his eyes, how was he going to make this work?  _

“Pardon me, Monsieur,” a different footman was now standing in front of Maurice, holding a box of candles and finding it difficult to get past the man who’d been still as a statue in the doorway. 

“Oh! Sorry there.” Maurice stepped aside, remembering where he was. He looked down at his feet, the top step of the porch, the stone had faded and had begun to wear in the middle from all the years of use. 

“Papa! There you are.” Belle appeared in the doorway, bringing a smile to Maurice’s face, shaking off his sad memories. “Someone’s in the workshop asking what to do with your paintings, I know how careful you are about preserving them.” 

“Ah, thank you, Belle,” he put a hand to her arm and stepped into the living room. “Yes, the oils and the temperature, you know, it could affect the picture.” 

“Right,” his daughter nodded, heading for the stairs to the second floor. “I’ll be upstairs, let me know if you need anything, Papa.” 

Maurice nodded, watching her as she vanished up the stairs, then letting his eyes fall around the room. Most everything had been accounted for, in crates or given away to others in the village. He recalled his first night there, it looked similarly as it did now, as he had barely anything to his name, then. Belle had to sleep carefully beside him, as he could not take her bassinet from Paris. They hadn’t anything, only each other and a fearlessness left between them from a woman who they both desperately needed back in their lives. 

As the old man circled around into the kitchen, he noticed a footman stacking dishes into a crate on the counter. “Careful with those,” Maurice said, stepping closer. “I made some of these, you know. This one,” he took a slightly misshapen bowl in his hands, grinning. “I was not the best at the ceramic work, a little tricky for me. But, still functional!” 

“Would you like to take them to the castle, Monsieur?” The footman asked.

Maurice brought the bowl to the crate, peering in to see the rest of the dishes. Plates and mugs and the like; some more proper looking than others. He noticed a wooden spoon at the bottom of the crate, and he reached in to look it over. It had aged, the handle splintering and the end discolored. He thought about all the different recipes it had seen, all the years in that kitchen. 

_ “That’s it, even circles.”  _

_ “It’s… so… sticky!” Maurice’s little daughter protested, using all the arm strength she could muster to stir the mix of batter.  _

_ “All right then, let me take over.” _

_ Belle hopped down off of the chair she’d been standing on. “What can I do, Papa?”  _

_ “The carrots for the stew! Do you remember where they are in the garden?” Maurice asked as he slid the bowl in front of him on the counter. _

_ The little girl’s eyes lit up. “Yes! I’ll dig them all up!” She ran for the door. _

_ “Wait, Belle!” Maurice chuckled. “Not all of them, just three would suffice.”  _

_ Belle’s face drooped like a flower. “Okay…” She turned and went for the door, stepping out to their garden and grabbing the spade from the porch. Maurice peaked out the window, watching her carefully pick out each carrot. He walked back to the counter, continuing to stir the batter.  _

_ After a few moments, Belle pulled open the door and stepped inside. “I’ve got the carrots, Papa!”  _

_ “Wonderful! Let’s have a look then,” Maurice turned, suddenly startled at the sight of his daughter, who managed to get herself entirely covered in dirt in a matter of minutes. He dropped the wooden spoon in his surprise as Belle came over to him, reaching the carrots up to him proudly.  _

_ He smiled, then laughed, putting the carrots on the counter and kneeling down in front of her. “My, my, Belle. You brought the whole garden back with you!” He swiped the dirt off of her cheeks and nose, she scrunched up her face and shook her head away.  _

_ Belle picked up the spoon and held it to Maurice. “You dropped this, Papa.”  _

_ Maurice took it from her, a grin on his face that you couldn’t wipe away if you tried. “Thank you, my dear.” He reached it up to the counter. “Now, I need you to go change your dress, we can’t risk the dirt there mixing in with the flour!” He kissed her forehead and off she scurried up the stairs, leaving a trail of bits of dirt behind her. Maurice stood, chuckling to himself and looking around for the broom. He knew it was nearby, this was not the first time this week that Belle had been a little excited in the garden. Before going in search of it, he took the spoon in his hands and wiped it off with a rag, it would have much more use before the recipe was complete.  _

“Yes.” Maurice said, dropping the wooden spoon back in the crate. “If not for the kitchen, I could find some use for these dishes in my workshop at the castle!” 

The footman nodded amiably and carried the crate outside without another word. Maurice looked around: the little tiles he’d let Belle paint and place along the counter, the iron pots and pans he’d made countless stews in for them both, it was all they could make in those early days. 

He continued to the stairs, descending to his workshop. When he appeared, two hopeless-looking footmen stood, surrounded by Maurice’s paintings and music boxes and sketches and trinkets. The artist stepped in, laughing to himself. “Need some help, boys?” 

The pair nodded, and Maurice began directing (best he could, he was never good at telling others what to do) and making sure all of his art was properly stored. 

It reminded him of Paris. All the sketches and pieces he had to leave behind. Images of his wife, sitting in the window sill, the sun shining on her, as she gazed at the city beyond. Tracings of their newborn daughter, asleep against her mother. It felt like a lifetime ago, and yet, every time Maurice looked into his daughter’s eyes, he saw that fire. Courage that was once ablaze behind his wife’s eyes, a fearlessness to be only herself, everyone else be damned. He looked at the paintings of her now, the ones he made here, except the one he was able to save. He used them so Belle always knew her mother, and so he could never forget her. He struggled for so long to speak of her, but with art, he didn’t have to. She came to life on the canvas, there she was, sitting with her daughter on her lap. There she was, dancing in the sunlight. There she lived, smiling and happy and far too young to have left a world that hadn’t been ready for her in the first place. 

When all the work was accounted for, the footmen carried out the last load, and Maurice stood alone in another empty room. It still smelled of paint, and metal, and wood. A mix of he and his daughter’s two minds: art and science. He could never understand where Belle had picked up such an inventive spirit, just that she must have been born with it. He could remember even when she was just a girl, the way her mind worked had always been something extraordinary. 

_ “Belle! Could you come down here for a moment?”  _

_ The sound of footsteps could be heard, pitter-pattering against the creaky stairs. Soon, Belle stood there, doe-eyed with a half-read book in her hand, held open by her thumb. She cocked her head at the sight of her father, both his hands seemingly stuck in place as he worked on a baby mobile.  _

_ “Belle, dear, I have to hold this together, but that twine, on the other table, bring it here please?”  _

_ Belle folded a piece of parchment in her book and set it down, walking over to the twine. “How much do you need, Papa?”  _

_ “Uhm,” Maurice looked over the work, delicately held in place, measuring in his head. “Just a bit, I’ll tell you when.”  _

_ Belle pulled at the twine, unraveling it. Maurice signaled her to stop, and she cut at it with a nearby knife.  _

_ “Now, if you could just tie it around there.”  _

_ Belle smiled, shoving a little stool beside her Papa and climbing onto it. She tied the twine in place, and finally Maurice’s hands could rest.  _

_ “Who is it for?” Belle asked as she climbed down..  _

_ “You remember Pere Robert? His sister is having a baby, it’s for her.” Maurice picked up the mobile and held it above Belle’s head, letting it spin.  _

_ Belle stared up at it in wonder. “She will love it!”  _

_ As the pair of them admired the work, a sudden sound of shifting and then a crash startled them both. Belle had unknowingly set the knife on an uneven panel of wood, and the entire board, along with the knife, crashed to the floor, hitting the stool that Belle didn’t use anymore because of its wobbly tendencies. Unsurprisingly, one of its legs snapped in half from the crash.  _

_ “Goodness, are you okay?” Maurice asked, a hand on her shoulder, keeping her from the mess.  _

_ Belle nodded, stepping cautiously toward the ruble.  _

_ “Careful, the knife, Belle.” Maurice stood and stepped around her, picking it up. “Not too much damage done!”  _

_ His daughter pulled the stool and its separated leg out from under the board and looked it over. She then set it down, eyes searching around the room.  _

_ “It’s… okay, Belle. We don’t use it anyway, it can be firewood…” Maurice watched as she began digging through boxes of supplies, scraps, nonsense that her father collected in case it could be useful for art. She then pulled out an old rag, long and thin like a scarf.  _

_ Sitting on her knees, she pushed the leg back into its place, then wrapped the scarf around the break, tying it tight and wrapping it around the leg several times like a cast.  _

_ Maurice put the board back on the table, but his eyes never left Belle. She stood up, then pressed down on the seat. She looked up at her father. _

_ “Well? Try it out!”  _

_ She smiled, climbing onto it and sitting; the stool now steady. _

_ That was the first time Belle had fixed something; the first time Maurice saw that special spark in her eyes. How proud of herself she was, having made something better all on her own. That’s when the workshop went from being just his, to being theirs.  _

Maurice smiled fondly at the now empty side of the workshop that had for so many years been occupied by one very special girl. When she and Adam had sat in front of Maurice and explained everything that had happened, after his initial shock and bewilderment that the gravely apologetic man in front of him was the same beast he’d first encountered, Maurice couldn’t truly be all that surprised. If anyone was going to lift a magical curse with the power of a good heart, it was going to be his daughter. She was brilliant and wonderful, in every way. She had her mother’s heart and mind, and Maurice was entirely thankful for it. The old artist decided then that it was time he go check on his daughter, so he silently said farewell to the very well-used and well-loved workshop, and he climbed the stairs. 

“My, looks so much bigger with everything packed away.” Maurice mused as he stepped into Belle’s bedroom. His daughter was sitting on her bed reading a book. That happens when you go through your things, you tend to stop and get fixed on one thing you thought you’d lost years ago, and then it absorbs you all too easily. 

Belle looked up, a little startled at the sudden voice, but calmed to see her father. “I know, very strange, isn’t it?” She folded the book and set it in a crate, the last one in the room that now only occupied a bare bed and an empty bookshelf built into the wall. 

Her father wandered into the room, taking in the smells, wood floor creaking beneath his feet. He was solemn, stepping to the window and pushing it open. “You should let some air in here, what with all the dust that’s rising from the cleaning.” 

Belle looked up at him, rising to her feet. “Are you all right, Papa?” 

“Yes,” he pretended, putting a hand to her cheek. “Are you?” 

His daughter smiled, a little sadly. “I am. Though saying goodbye to this place is harder than I should have expected.” She put a hand on the wall, a faded mural of flowers and birds that Maurice did when she was little. It all seemed equally forever ago and just the day before.

Maurice looked along the wall at the disappearing presence of the once vibrant colors. A noise outside tore his attention to the window, he peered out to see the footmen organizing and reorganizing all the crates and canvases and doodads. “As long as you’re happy, Belle. Then so am I.” 

“I thought it would be impossible to make me as happy as he does.” A smile formed on her face, she couldn’t help it. “It’s like in my books, Papa. Isn’t that ridiculous?” 

“I wouldn’t let you settle for anything less, my dear.” He flashed a smile at her, joy and pride in his eyes. His hand was on the window sill, and he felt a crunch under his fingers, revealing a piece of the sill almost entirely chipped away. “This old house is withering away as it is. Best we leave before it comes down on top of us,” he chuckled. 

“I remember when I did that,” Belle stepped over, investigating the damaged wood. 

“One of your late night excursions to the roof, hm?” He gave her a knowing smile. 

Belle’s mouth fell open. “You knew I did that?” 

Her father laughed, “yes, but I’m sure you did it a lot more than I realized.”

_ “Of course! Have a good night, then!” Maurice had just sold a painting, though he wished it was as simple as that. The man he’d sold the painting to had not only driven a hard bargain, he’d dragged the sale out for days; getting “chummy” with Maurice, inviting him out with “the boys”, anything but actually purchasing the painting. And poor Maurice, not wishing to fall out of the man’s good graces (as this had been his best sale in months), fumbled along with it. He even engaged in a rigorous game of “darts” that the buyer had apparently picked up during some trip in London that Maurice had heard all too much about.  _

_ Finally, though. Finally, the young artist had had (what he hoped to be) his last pint of beer with that man. The painting was in the buyer’s hands, the money in Maurice’s. The sky was painted a midnight blue, which was almost fitting, given that it was in fact near the hour. The moon was full, and Maurice’s cottage was all the way across the village, but he was nearly there. Surely, Belle would be asleep. Though, she did stay up late reading, sometimes. Most nights, actually. But, it’s late, she must be asleep by now.  _

_ Maurice thought about the book he’d managed to order from Paris, brand new, for her twelfth birthday. It had been a good year, and God knows she deserved it. Pere Robert had offered her his little library, and in all truth, Maurice was thankful for it. But the joy Belle felt when she got the chance to read something new, and the way her face lit up when she held the new book in her hands… priceless. He kept thinking about how excited she was after her third time rereading it, when she noticed something she completely missed the first two times. He smiled to himself, looking up at the stars as he approached his home.  _

_ Suddenly his eyes drew to the roof of the cottage. There seemed to be a silhouetted figure of some kind, perched on the roof. Too big to be a cat, Maurice thought. A dog couldn’t get up there, surely. He stepped closer, just outside their garden. It looked like‒ could it be? Belle, on the roof? Yes, in the moonlight, as he crept into the garden, he was sure of it now. His first thought was to worry, that sinking feeling in his chest that screamed, “what if she falls off?” But he kept his eyes fixed on her. She looked peaceful, her foot swinging to some rhythm that she probably got stuck in her head from him. Her hair draped down the paneling of the roof, a long braid. She laid on her back like she’d escaped up there a hundred times before, like she was more comfortable there than her own bed.  _

_ Maurice’s heart eased, just a little. It also hurt more, too. He saw the way she looked at the world, he knew how much she loved to hear about other places (she was so eager to hear every detail about that beer-swilling buyer’s excursion to London when her Papa told her about it, it was all Maurice could do to act as though he’d been paying any attention). It broke his heart every time she asked about Paris or her mother, but he knew inside she couldn’t help it. His daughter had a wild heart, one that would never be able to be kept tame in a village for long. If she needed to run to the rooftop to break free from the rest of her little life for just an evening, Maurice would have to be okay with it. He smiled at the sight, continuing to the sticky front door and hoping it wouldn’t be too loud and break Belle’s peace.  _

“I didn’t do it all that often,” Belle chuckled, a little embarrassed that she’d been found out. “It was just, the stars, you know? There’s nothing like them on a clear night.” 

“Oh, I quite understand, there’s no need to explain yourself.” He cupped her chin, smiling. “I’m so glad you’re finally getting your adventures, Belle.” 

Belle smiled, wrapping her arms around her Papa’s shoulders and hugging him close. “Thank you, Papa.”

After their embrace, Maurice took her hand, the engagement ring from Adam dazzling her finger. He tilted her hand, letting it sparkle in the sunlight pouring in from the window. 

“It was his mother’s,” she said, knowing how precious the stone really was.

“He told me. It’s beautiful.” Maurice looked up at her, a proud grin on his face. Soon, his face fell. “I wish I had something of your mother’s… I…” he shook his head. 

“It’s okay, Papa. I’d never need anything of hers, I have you.” 

“Oh, you have so much of her, my dear Belle. Her eyes, her smile… her very heart beats inside of you.” He tucked a loose strand of hair that had fallen out of her bun behind her ear. “She’d be so proud to see you now.” 

They both stood there, tears in their eyes, standing tall and living on with the memory of someone who really would be so proud of them both. 

The sound of horse’s hooves clip-clopping on the cobblestone outside distracted them from their sadness. They both peered out the window, seeing who had arrived to their already over-crowded moving out party. “Oh! Adam’s here,” Belle wiped at her cheeks and sniffled. “Probably wondering what’s taking so long,” she chuckled. 

“Go on, I’ll join you in a moment.” 

Belle put a hand on his arm and kissed his cheek, then turned, taking the last crate of her things and retreating down the stairs to greet Adam. 

Maurice watched from the window as she exited the cottage and hurried down the steps, dropping the crate in front of the carriage and meeting Adam as he dismounted his horse. Adam smiled. He’d been doing that a lot, Maurice had noticed. He supposed that when something so important as happiness has been locked up for so long, it only makes sense that it would show itself as much as possible, once freed. The young and in love couple continued to talk, and Maurice pulled away from the window. He left Belle’s room and crossed the hall to his own, already emptied, save for a bare bed frame, but needing one last goodbye. 

He stood in the middle of it, he could picture where everything was just days before. His chest of drawers over there, beside the window. His bed across the room, right there. His rickety old wardrobe, against the wall beside the door. A faded throw rug had laid in the middle of the floor, right beneath where he stood now. Memories flashed in his mind. Mornings on his birthday when Belle would wake extra early to bring him breakfast in bed. Dark and stormy middle-of-the-nights when Belle would run in and squirm under the covers beside Maurice, thunder crashing against their ears. All the afternoons he’d been reading, sitting on the bench under his window, and Belle comes in and can’t wait to tell him about the book she’s just finished or the adventure outside she just had or the funny thing Philippe just did or the annoying way all the village boys don’t seem to know how to behave. He can see all too clearly that first night, his tiny infant finally asleep, laying on his bed because her bassinet simply couldn’t join them. He’s tired, exhausted, distressed… about as crest-fallen as a man could become. He goes to the window, the dark street staring back at him with grave uncertainty. He thinks he sees her for a moment; his beloved, his darling, his everything. It still doesn’t feel real, it still doesn’t feel like she’s gone. He can’t look at their daughter without wondering where her mother went. He can’t stand being so far from their home, but he knows it’s safer. He knows it’s what she wanted. This is the life that would make her smile upon him, and that’s all he could ever want from her. Her smile upon him, every time he closes his eyes. Every time he dreams. It would have to be enough until he can see her again.  _ One day, my beloved. _

He stood at the window now, older and in the daylight. The blankets and clothes have been packed away, the furniture taken care of, and the sleeping infant has grown into a bright and beautiful young woman. He did what he came here to do. He saved his daughter, he kept her safe, he raised her on his own; despite the loss, despite how little they had, he couldn’t have been more proud of her. Suddenly, in his silence, he heard voices downstairs: one he had known since it had first uttered words, the other familiar, but still new and being learned every day. He left his bedroom, smiling at the beam of sunlight that poured in from the window, and closed the door. 

“Hey!” Belle said when Maurice came down the stairs. She and Adam were standing in the empty living room, leaning against the mantel. Maurice suspected he’d interrupted a conversation. 

“Hello, you two.” He circled around to join them. “Good ride, Adam? It seems like it’s getting hotter out there.” 

The prince nodded. “Dreadfully hot, but the wind from the ride helped.” 

“Is it all finished up there?” Belle asked.

“Yes, I think we’ve finally completed emptying this place.” 

Maurice and Belle smiled at each other, a little forlorn, but a little hopeful all the same. Adam put a hand on Belle’s back, reading the room. “I’ll just be outside,” he whispered, slipping out the front door. 

“He’s a good man,” Maurice said, once the prince had left. 

Belle sighed. “He is.” She took her Papa’s hand, like she did when she was little and they were braving the market place together. They looked around one last time, their eyes wandering everywhere, trying to remember it as it was, trying to remember every detail and every bit of how thankful they were for that dear little cottage. Belle brought her eyes back to her Papa, squeezing his hand. “Are you ready?” 

Maurice squeezed her hand back, heart pounding, grinning as he looked upon his daughter’s face. “Yes.” They walked to the door, toggling the knob and shoving it open for the last time. They stepped outside, a bright day before them, a beautiful future ahead. 


End file.
